The story was about a fat, little Italian who happened to make it good. This guinea designed scenery for the opera houses in Milan and New York before making his way out west. Well, once he’d poked his finger through a Hollywood set, he sent for all the boys back home—you know, the carpenters and painters and masons who’d built the Sistine Chapel, but who were fresh off the boat and willing to ply their trades for a nickel a day. Pretty soon, all the studios wanted to hire this guy. He’s building Dodge Cities, and African jungles, and rooms in Versailles, making half a million bucks a year. So, naturally, he tears down his little shack on Doheny and has his boys build him a mansion with all the fixings. He moves back in on August first, 1935, and the following morning, they find him floating in his pool.

Litsky well remembered the heat wave of ’35. In fact, as he was sitting in O’Malley’s listening to this yarn, he could practically feel the swelter; he could practically hear the water lapping at the edge of the pool as the cruisers pull into the drive.

Quick as a wink, the cops see that this was no ordinary accident. There was no bump on his head, no booze in his blood. So they start wondering: Did one of those vendettas get carried over from the old country? Did one of his paisanos finally get tired of working for nickels? Or, was the competition getting antsy?

Blondie leaned back and shot some smoke at the ceiling.

—But in the end, Mr. Litsky, do you know what it was that killed him?

—No, said Litsky, wiping his brow. What?

—The metric system.

Litsky shook his head.

—The metric system . . . ?

—You see, our little entrepreneur didn’t know how to swim. So when the pool was being built, he told his mason to make it a yard and a half deep—that way, he could wade in it safely with his head above water. But the mason, having just arrived in America, didn’t know what a yard was. And when he asked, one of his countrymen told him it was just like a meter. But, as you know Mr. Litsky, a meter is a little longer than a yard. So that’s what this man’s ticket on the Millionaire Express bought him: Five extra inches of water.

Litsky stood to go. But the room moved a little to the left.

—That’s a helluva story, Blondie.

He reached for his bag. He knew there was something important in it. Something like his future. Or maybe it was his past. He couldn’t remember. But either way, it was heavy as hell.

—Here, said a motherly voice. Let me help you with that.

Freed of its burden, Litsky’s body floated a foot off the ground. It hovered for a second, and then settled back in its chair.